I Swear I'm No Good
by The Whimsicals
Summary: This is an I story. It's about how I live and function. It's about how I fall in and out of love, misery, ballet, and Francis. And somewhere, I meet someone named Arthur Kirkland. I fall in love with him, too. I just don't fall out of it this time. UKUS.
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, like today, I like to paint one hand of my nails, and then turn the light off and paint the other hand. Once they've dried, I turn the light back on and compare the two. How wrong the second hand seems! The precise, sharp lines on the left hand; the careless, slopped on mess to the right. My foolish senses beguiled by loss of sight into believing I was doing it right. I always reach for the remover and wipe away the mistakes.

Dark red lacquer staring up boldly from my fingernails. It looks so bright, so deep, like real blood painted onto my hands with the utmost precision. Francis likes the colour red; he says it brings to mind richness, royalty, regalia, respect. I say that's too many 'r's. Top coat, coat it on top, shiny shiny shiny. I look good. Red is a strong color. I'm strong.

I make a shark face in the mirror. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed. Claws bared too, and now I'm a tiger. Tiger shark? Winky face at myself, pout. Red lipstick, I look like a vampire. Pale skin, pale hair, blank canvas for bright red lips. But wait, my hair is too light, my eyes too blue. Too this, too that, bumpy skin, under-eye bags, dry lips. Everything you do dries out your lips. Everything.

"Francis, do I look like a vampire?" I turn and pout. He's scribbling at something.

"No, of course not, your ass looks great." He doesn't look up.

"What?" My ass..? Vampires have perfect, immortal asses. Mine needs a good 99 Workout.

"Oh. Um, sorry, I'm just tired. And yeah, yeah you look.. Dead. And stuff," Francis finally glances up for half a second, then the bastard just keeps drawing on his little scrap of graph paper. Well fuck you too.

I run upstairs, feet clunking heavily on the less-than-sturdy wood. I feel dirty, and I want a shower. I drop my clothes on the floor, feeling a little guilty about the mess, but whatever. I can clean it up when I'm done my shower.

Warm water is the most comfortable thing in the entire world. I could stand here forever. No, I couldn't. I need food, and alcohol, and Francis. I need Francis, all of Francis, sweet, sophisticated, soft, seductive, and shining like the sun. Even his kisses taste sweet, like cotton candy. We lay in bed late at night, and it's that perfect window of not-quite-sure-of-anything between when the moon sets and the sun rises. He looks so, so beautiful when the light hits him from the window. I smile a little. It sounds silly, but I get kind of a tweak in my chest when he looks up at me through his eyelashes. Sometimes, I get a feeling like he's the hot air balloon, and I only the plain brown wicker basket beneath. Francis is a dreamer, rising into the clouds with his free spirit and lovely smile. I am lucky to have been brought along, the privileged, pulling him down with me.

And then sometimes, like now, I realize that's fucking stupid; I'm fucking stupid. And I go back to washing my hair with body wash because I'm too cheap to buy real shampoo. It's not like Francis doesn't have any, he has like, fucking one billion expensive beauty products, but I never touch them. They're not mine to touch.

"I smell like an Irish Spring!" I announce, bouncing downstairs in just my briefs. The blond across the room finally notices me, and smiles, putting his things away. "Let's go upstairs."

He grabs my waist and kisses me gently on the mouth. I love this. He's the best of the best at loving me, and it gives me tingles when he slides his hand down my warm, bare back. Heavy palming, wet kisses, rough tongues, frenzied touch: these are the moments I live for.

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><p>His fingers playing with my hair. It's dawn, and I'm sweaty, and satiated. I lay underneath Francis, smiling at him. A moment later, he smiles vaguely back. I guess I really am that good, huh, if he can't even think straight. I stretch, arching my back, with my eyes closed. In my moment of distraction via spinal comfort, a tongue found it's way to my chest.<p>

"Hey, Francis?"

"Ynes, dlarlinkt?"

"I-Just. Would you-just-will you stop that!" I push myself up, look him in the eye for once. "Stop distracting me, will you, I'm trying to say something."

He stares up at me, arms on either side of my too-pale body. Francis focuses on me, eyes narrow and mouth open just the slightest bit. I hate that head tilt- it always means something, no matter how much he insists it doesn't. I hate how he knows everything. I hate it, I hate how condescending he is. I hate hate hate how things always seem so muddled when I see them in his eyes even though they are the clearest blue in the entire world.

"What is it, mon cher? What did you want to say?" He stares right fucking through me.

"I-" I hate you. I get headaches from your cologne. I know screwed Hercules on New Year's Eve. I secretly feed the lunches you make me to the cat. I, I, I don't know you anymore. "I love you."

He smiles. So I smile. Somewhere in the apartment above, a girl is singing. _If you're the bird, whenever we pretend it's summer, then I'm the worm._

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><p><em>Read and review? Please3<em>


	2. Chapter 2

A lot of people ask how to make friends. Even more people ask how to get someone to like you. The trick is to take it slow. It's like being a government spy: the more you can get them to let their guard down, the easier it is for you to wiggle your way inside. You start with something small, a compliment is best; everyone loves being flattered. A smile when you pass, a hello in the hallway. Then, one day, you wake up feeling braver than usual, and you ask them to go somewhere, do something. Go to the corner store at lunch. Then you do it again, a little bit later. And each time you do it, it gets easier.

And if you get to know them, do it right, and really know them to their core then that's when you know you've made a friend. And if you don't, if you can't give a little smile and answer someone else's questions about them, (the questions that you asked yourself when you first saw them), then you don't know them. Not really.

Once in a blue moon, something else comes along. You know them more than they know themselves, you trust and admire and connect, you know them like you know the way around your bedroom in the dark. It's more than memorizing facts, like you used to in biology class; it's more like math class. The concept is far more important than the minute detail, you understand them flawlessly, and the feeling that is associated with being with them, knowing them, having them with you.

You're not sure you quite know this feeling, this light that leaks in through the blinds just as the sun comes up. Being content to stare at them, revelling in the beauty of this relationship between two people so close. Tracing their skin with the tips of your fingers, knowing how they function, speak, breathe, think, feel. Live. It's something so whole, and completely perfect in itself, you don't dare touch it. You're not sure where to put it; what it is. But you are, you do know.

There's a moment, somewhere along the line, when you realize you are in love. Perhaps it takes a long time, or if you are especially observant, you may pick up on it quickly. No matter what sort of people you are, somewhere in the mess of feelings and sex and giddy smiles or crying on the kitchen floor, at some point, you will come across this emotion, no matter how briefly. That moment will exist. If you aren't being taken back to that little timeless window, you weren't in love. Not really.

You may try to tell yourself you are being silly, or be angry with yourself, but there is no escaping the idea once it takes root in your mind. You are in love, in happiness, content, at peace with yourself and with the world.

And this is where it gets kind of tricky. It's a finicky thing, love. If you try to tamper with it, it usually backfires horribly, but if you leave it to it's own devices, it slowly stops working, like a lost friendship, fizzling weakly, and that wonderful feeling of being at peace with your demons, happy because you have something precious cupped in your palm, will fizzle and fail, and slowly fall apart, just like Five gum that's been in your mouth too long. How can you know when the breaking point is? You can't. You adapt, and change with the changing relationship the way that water will simply go around a stone set in the middle of the creek. If you can't do that, if the other person can't do that, then I'm afraid their chapter in your story has come to an end. Your lines are not parallel, and if they aren't straight as a ruler, then one day, maybe you'll come across them again. For now, just make sure your end is not a bitter and angry end, filled with resentment; it is much better to let them go once you feel them pulling away, and send them off with a smile, no matter how sad your smile may be.

I can't help revisiting that feeling in my head when I'm upset and looking for answers. When you look back on it, everything is a hazy blur, like just before you fall asleep and right as you wake up. All of the memories in my head I spend so much time rewinding over and over again are glowy and sun-dappled and unclear, (_but it doesn't matter because the beautiful feeling is there, in all of them) _and I'm sure if they had a scent, they would smell like ripe peaches.

If its not perfect, you will painstakingly pick out each flaw, and tear apart your happiness, your "sun that lights up the vast universe of your heart"; finite but with no limits. If its not perfect, you convince your flawed human heart that you were never in love at all, and slowly, bitterly, it turns against you. One day it will leave you, just like everything else and you will be left alone, and with a gaping hole in your chest to boot.

Days like this make me want to fucking stab myself in the throat. I don't want to play the blame game; I really, really, don't. It's just that when you've only just woken up, gotten dressed, gone downstairs, and the first thing you see is the person you love most in the whole world with their arm around someone else, it makes you take a step back and re-evaluate the relationship between you two.

"Francis." No reply. Again, then, more urgently. "Francis."

He turns this time, smiles his smile. For a moment, I'm lost in it, and then I remember he's playing games with me. I can't stop staring at his arm. Who is that?

"You're awake." Don't smile at me like that, prick. Take your arm off of that whore. My fingers wrap around the door frame, and I stare tight-lipped into the bustling dining room from the empty living room.

"Yeah," is the only answer I can muster up. "Yeah." The pause has an awkward ring to it, swelling and growing until it fills the room. I can see the uncomfortableness on Francis' face, and his eyes avoid mine. How long can you do this, Francis? _You still have your arm around her. _How long can you play this game, of avoiding questions; you have to say something, because I won't. I can do this forever.

Yet the imminent break comes from the most unexpected party of all: the girl. I see it coming, out of the corner of my eye, she turns, with a disgustingly perky smile perched on her cakey face. I want to vomit on her and her expensive shoes.

"Francie, who's this?" _Francie?_ What is this shit? He opens his mouth, and looks at the ground. Yes, Francie, keep going. Who am I? She looks back and forth between the two of us. Who does this broad think she is? _The best part is, she isn't a broad. She's so much better looking than I ever will be. I could never measure up to someone like that. To Francis. I don't deserv-_

"I'm Sabrina, Francie's girl. Are you his little brother?" I stare at her for a full second. Then I stare at Francis, taking the smallest amount of happiness at the look on his face. I stare at Sabrina some more; her smile is faltering, wobbling. I walk out of the room, through the living room and back into the kitchen. I can't even take this shit right now. I'll make some brunch, go to the library, and the studio. Anything good in the fridge? Yogurt, fruit, granola. A parfait should do. And I freeze when I hear it, floating above the chatter of a seemingly endless supply of friends I didn't know Francis had.

"What an aloof, bitchy brother you have, Francie. You would never meet some one like that on Seychelles. How can you live with that all the time?" _Are you serious. _"Who does he think he is?"

"Don't take it to heart, douceur. He just takes some time to get used to, I swear." I can hear you, Francis. "I'll make it up to you tonight, yeah?"

Later, when I'm at the studio, practicing my pirouettes, I re-enact the scene in my head, and take way too much pleasure out of the look on her face and her scream. I hope the yogurt never washes out of that dress, bitch.

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><p><em>Sabrina is meant to be Seychelles, and one of those obnoxious people who never stops talking about how their hometown is better than your hometown. The Seychelles Islands are originally a British colony, but now a Republic, and they are in the Indian ocean, somewhat off the coast of Africa. <em>

_Douceur is a French word, meaning sweetness, honey, gentleness, mildness, smoothness, meekness, and clemency. The image that Sabrina thinks she projects, she is convinced she is the epitome of geniality, and therefore each man who courts her must refer to her by this nickname. _

_Sorry for the slow update. Please read and review! c:_


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